


The Break-In

by Theonenamedafterahat



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: I'm trying to be funny here I'm not sure if I succeeded, Let's be honest every Musketeer wants to be Treville when they grow up, M/M, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Rimming, this ended up a bit dirtier than I originally planned?, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:21:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9640502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theonenamedafterahat/pseuds/Theonenamedafterahat
Summary: “Why would I have a pipe in my bedroom?!”Jean would really like to shout. “In case of burglars,” he hisses. “What kind of person doesn’t keep a weapon in their bedroom?”“The kind with a decent home security system!”“Oh yeah Armand, it seems great, I’m glad that worked out for you.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Slowlymychaos asked me on tumblr: _“I wish you would write a fic where…” Richelieu is living in a rich uptown area, and he finally invites Treville for the night. During that night there’s a break-in and of course, Treville being Treville grabs Armand’s golf club and goes to investigate. He gets shot, still manages to defeat one of the burglars with a bullet in his arm, ambulance arrives, all ends well and Armand wants to rip his head off that on their first night together that idiot apparently wanted to die. Bonus if the ‘break-in’ was arranged by Richelieu’s rival Richefort who was after the laptop Richelieu has as CEO that holds all top secret company files._
> 
> Well... here it is.

 

 

 

“Are your people working especially hard to create extra paperwork for me to deal with?” Armand complains. He’s pacing in front of Jean’s desk, holding at least three folders worth of forms in his hands, and Jean predicts that if Armand doesn’t  _stop_ pacing soon then that paperwork he’s so concerned with will end up all over the floor. Honestly the man looks ready to drop — his eyes have dark rings around them and his hair is a mess from where he’s clearly been running his hand through it in frustration. 

Jean bites his lip to stop himself smiling. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lies cheerfully. “Also, you  _do_ know that the term ‘paperwork’ doesn't really have to be taken literally anymore? We have these things called computers now.” 

Armand glares down at him. Such a dramatic man, Jean thinks. But someone should tell him that expression isn’t half so intimidating when his hair looks like he’s just rolled out of bed.  

Perhaps not, though. Mentioning Armand and bed in the same sentence might break the rules of this game they’re playing, where they both languish in mutually assured sexual frustration until one of them gives in and says  _fuck it, let’s fuck._ Jean has a feeling it’s going to be him. Armand would put it far more elegantly — Jean’s actually never heard the man swear. He’d like to, some day. 

Although, if the way Armand was looking at him yesterday was any indication, Jean might not be doing too badly. He knew that shirt was a good idea — mainly because Constance told him, granted, but even so getting to see that look on Armand’s face was enough to keep Jean grinning all day.  

With a sharp noise of irritation, Armand dumps the papers down on Jean’s desk and sits heavily in the chair opposite him. “Yes,” he says. “And I would love to be using one now, only thanks to your Athos’ interference, my laptop has been confiscated.”  

“You’re blaming my team for investigating a possible security breech in our network?” Jean leans forward. Armand is practically begging for a fight, and Jean has no objections.  

Armand does not disappoint. “If they have done their job, there won't  _be_ any security breech,” he hisses back, hands clutching the arms of his chair like it’s taking all his strength not to grab him, shove him up against a wall, and — and that’s one of Jean’s fantasies and probably not what Armand was going for, so Jean is just going to ignore that line of thought.  

Anyway, he thinks to himself, if anyone is going to be up against a wall, it’ll be Armand.   

"Why can't you just use another computer?" Jean already knows the answer. Still, it's nice to hear it. 

"You know I don't trust them," Armand says. "Which is why I only use my laptop. Because I have complete confidence that it won't be interfered with." 

“Well, I have complete confidence in my people,” Jean says, without sympathy. “Which means I agree with them when they say that there is a possibility your laptop may have been infected with a virus that, among other things,” he gestures to the paperwork now practically making his desk bend underneath it’s weight, “could mean that a large amount of data was at risk. Possibly still is.”  

“I repeat my point,” Armand says, “that it was the duty of your subordinates to ensure that events like this couldn't happen.”  

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean, it was  _my_ duty?”  

Armand’s glare intensifies. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. 

No, Jean thinks, that hair really does make it so that Armand’s expression of fury really isn’t as intimidating as Jean feels it should be. Logically, he should be quaking in his boots — he’s seen people reduced to tears by this particular expression on Armand’s face (Well, one person. Louis. Technically still their boss, though it seems like even he forgets sometimes. Armand apologised afterwards).   

Jean stands up, and moves to lean against the corner of his desk. “I don’t think I’m being ridiculous,” he lies. Everything about this is ridiculous. He’d never found antagonism so attractive before meeting Armand. “Surely, as their boss, I am responsible for all they do, and all they fail to do. If you want to punish anyone, shouldn’t it be me?”  

“That’s absurd,” Armand growls — Jean’s pulse jumps at the sound — and stands, using every millimetre of the 0.03 inch difference in their heights to try and loom over him. Jean would scoff if he weren’t so delighted. Like he's gonna be intimidated by 0.03 inches. It’s laughable — also slightly adorable, which is more problematic for Jean to deal with, so he isn’t going to deal with it.  

“You know I—”  

  
_What,_ Jean wants to say.  _You couldn’t do this without me? You need me? If you got rid of me you’d be stuck with what’s-his-first-name-who-the-fuck-cares-anyway Rochefort, and that’s why neither of us are going anywhere?_

“—don’t want that,” Armand finishes somewhat anticlimactically, the pause clearly having taken the wind out of his sails.  

“I know,” Jean says. He nudges the papers still taking up space on his desk. “You should get on with these. Wouldn’t want—” he glances down briefly, “monthly progress reports — Jesus — to be submitted late. On the off-chance that Louis actually reads them this time.”  

Armand gives him a look that says: well, what else am I supposed to do? 

It’s a fair point. Louis is Louis, and he’s never going to change. Honestly, sometimes it’s even comforting.  

“Don’t be late for the meeting this afternoon,” Jean says.  

“I would never.”  

Jean coughs, and if his cough just happens to sound like “last Tuesday” then that’s Armand’s problem.  

Armand huffs as he picks up the progress reports. “That was your fault,” he mutters, not meeting Jean’s eyes.  

They had been caught up in an argument about... Jean can’t exactly remember what it was about. That’s not what was important, what was important was that he and Armand had got so caught up in it that they hadn’t noticed their circuit around the block had turned into ten circuits, and Armand had hardly looked away from Jean the whole time.  

Just then, a thought strikes Jean.  

"If you don't trust the company computers," he asks, "how come you're happy to leave those reports on my desk?"  

Armand doesn't reply verbally, but Jean is fairly sure he's blushing.  

_Ha,_ Jean thinks.  _Made you admit you trust me. Sort of._

“Stop deflecting,” Armand huffs. 

Jean grins unrepentantly. It’s true, Armand probably has had a lot more paperwork to deal with today, mainly thanks to Porthos and d’Artagnan’s work last night. He’s already had a long conversation about it with them. Or rather, at them. Loudly. He’s fairly certain they got the message — them and everyone else on the office floor at 7am that morning. 

 

* * *

 

There was no virus on Armand’s laptop. Athos hands it back with a stoic look on his face, and Armand manages to resist gloating. Then Jean tells him that if anyone should be happy with this result, it should be the security team — “it looks like we did our jobs after all; don’t you think you owe us an apology?” “I’m not going to apologise for the time  _your team_ wasted pursuing this ridiculous fabrication.” — and the resulting fight leaves Treville both exhausted and aroused.  

He finishes himself off in the shower that night, gritting his teeth, and defiantly doesn’t hold back from imagining what it would be like to fuck Armand into the wall. Amazing, probably. Those long legs around his waist, and let him try and argue with Jean then. He probably would, the bastard.  

Jean presses his forehead against the tiles and sighs. 

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly, Armand and Jean actually do agree on many things, which vary from the mundane to the vitally important. At one end of the scale, there’s the tea from the nearest Starbucks (shit), and the coffee from the office machine (worse). At the other end is Rochefort. He’s a degenerate and a moron and Armand would get Louis to fire him only he doesn’t technically work for him — and how Louis allows his mother to keep such a blatant spy in his company is still a mystery to Jean. Armand says he understands Louis’ reasons, but he hasn’t shared them yet, so Jean very much doubts that.  

So standing while Rochefort rambles on, drinking Starbucks’ tea (still shit, and somehow  _stale,_ if that’s even possible) is pretty awful. At least Armand is there too. Whenever Rochefort says something particularly inane, they share a look as if to say: “Are you seeing this too?” “Unfortunately. I hate that guy.” “Me too.”  

Though Jean does actually need to talk to Armand. Athos had taken him aside and sworn up and down that  _someone_ has been trying to gain access to encrypted data, and that the only way they are going to be able to access it is using the information stored on Armand’s laptop — that just because it hasn’t been compromised yet, doesn’t mean that someone isn’t trying to. Or that they won’t try to in the near future. The point is, Armand needs to be careful. They all need to be careful.  

Armand, who is currently hovering sarcastically  _(how)_ behind Louis, and glaring at the side of Rochefort’s head. Is he listening? Jean certainly isn’t. He’ll have to ask Armand if Rochefort said anything important later.  

At least with Louis involved, meetings tend to end quickly, and this is no exception. Armand doesn’t even try to hide his relief. It fades when he sees Jean waiting for him at the door after Louis and Rochefort have left, and disappears entirely when Jean says, “About your laptop —”  

“I thought IT said it was fine?” 

“Yeah, it is, but — look, can we go somewhere more private to discuss it?” 

Armand raises an eyebrow, and Jean remembers that they are alone. 

“Where would you suggest?” he asks dryly. “I believe there are a number of fine broom closets in the building, if privacy’s your concern.” 

Ah. Armand and him alone in a broom closet. Not really a place Jean wants his thoughts to go right now, damn it.  

Damn it, he’s probably blushing. Armand certainly looks amused. His look of amusement doesn’t change as Jean explains what Athos told him, and honestly. Jean didn’t sign up for this.  

“What exactly haven’t you told me,” he sighs heavily. “And don’t say ‘nothing’ — I know you well enough to know that’s a lie. You already knew, didn’t you?”  

“Think, Jean,” Armand says, and Jean resolutely ignores the small part of him that wants to smile when Armand says his name like that — “who would benefit from this company suffering from a massive data loss?”  

Any number of people, Jean would imagine. That’s not the question though. Armand is clearly willing to let it happen, or at least  _appear_  to let it happen, so he has a plan. So the question really is, who does Richelieu want to get rid of enough that he would be willing to take a risk like this —  

“You’re trying to get rid of Rochefort, aren’t you.”  

“And through him, Marie de Medici. Do I need to tell you any more?”

“No.” Jean can work out the rest. He’s planning to catch Rochefort in the act of stealing classified information. Then he’ll use it to force Marie to either resign her position on the board of directors, or to give Louis — in other words, himself — the leeway for his — Armand’s — next plan. Because that’s Armand all over, isn’t it, wheels within wheels, plans that lead to other plans and all interconnected. 

Jean shakes his head. “Does Louis know?”   

Armand gives him a look that says:  _what do you think?_

One day, Jean will stop being grateful that he and Armand are on the same side. And on that day, Hell will freeze over and pigs will fly.  

“You’re a real bastard, you know that?”  

“Indeed,” Armand says. Then he leans in slightly, and before Jean knows what’s happening, they’re kissing. From the way Armand gasps softly against him, Jean probably initiated it. Then there are thin, slender fingers at his waist, pulling him closer, and Jean grins. Armand tastes like shitty office coffee — somehow he doesn’t so much mind it like this.  

When they separate, Jean rests his forehead against Armand's. His fingers are still twisted in the hem of Jean’s shirt. 

 

* * *

 

Armand asks Jean to come home with him. To Jean’s surprise, they manage to make it all the way to Armand’s bedroom before either of them loose any clothes. Somehow Armand ends up naked on the bed, while Jean still has his trousers and shoes on.  

Then Armand pulls him down for another kiss, and Jean isn’t so concerned with clothes any more.  

Jean pushes him back until he’s lying down, sprawled on the covers, his long legs spread. 

Armand’s hair is in disarray already, his cheeks flushed, red marks already showing the trail of Jean’s mouth down his neck. Jean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look better. 

He puts a hand under Armand’s knee, encouraging him to bend his legs. Armand groans when Jean’s fingers linger on his inner thigh. “Don’t tease,” he gasps.  

“I’m not,” Jean says. He shuffles back so he can duck down between Armand’s thighs and replace his fingers with his mouth, scraping teeth along skin as he kisses his way down towards Armand’s cock.  

He actually whimpers as Jean licks around the base, and yelps at the first touch of Jean’s tongue against his hole.  

Alright, Jean can’t see him from this position and that is a downside — Armand must look incredible — but he can hear him, and that makes up for it. The little noises that escape Armand’s mouth have Jean painfully hard —  gasps that skirt the edge of sobbing, all but begging, harsh and desperate, and all because of what Jean is doing to him. 

Jean reaches to hitch one of Armand’s legs up, opening the angle to spread him wider. The fingers in his hair are spasming, clenching with each lick of his tongue. When Jean pulls away, bringing his other hand up, index finger circling against the opening, Armand lets out a strangled yell.  

Sitting up, Jean can see the effect of his actions — Armand looks wrecked. He’s clearly trying to hold himself together, but Jean can feel the way Armand shivers as he pushes two fingers into his body. He can see the look on his face. When Jean moves to kiss him, Armand kisses desperately, frantically, hips bucking as Jean works him open.  

“Clothes,” Armand demands when Jean pulls away. “Now.” Honestly, Jean doesn’t blame him. He’s still wearing his shoes, for God’s sake. 

He’s just about to reach down to unbuckle his belt, when he hears a sound. 

_Downstairs. Front room. Broken glass._

No — no, this can’t be happening — but Jean looks up at Armand, and he’s gone pale. 

Alright then. It’s happening.   

Jean doesn’t quite tumble off the bed, but it’s a near thing.  

“Do you have a cricket bat,” he whispers urgently.  

Armand looks at him like he’s gone mad. “No,” he says, in a tone that heavily implies:  _isn’t that obvious?_  It’s a tone Jean is very familiar with. 

“Golf club, then?”  

“I’m not nearly as athletic as you clearly think I am.” 

“A pipe? Anything?” 

_“Why would I have a pipe in my bedroom?!”_

Jean would really like to shout. “In case of burglars,” he hisses. “What kind of person doesn’t keep a weapon in their bedroom?”  

“The kind with a decent home security system!” 

“Oh yeah Armand, it seems great, I’m glad that worked out for you.” 

Armand opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again, eyes wide, clearly hearing exactly what Jean is; someone walking towards the bedroom door. A good, heavy door, that opens outwards.  

Jean smiles grimly, and moves silently across the room to stand holding the door handle, listening intently. Armand’s eyes are huge, but he doesn’t try to talk. He looks genuinely afraid (and yet still somehow furious, which for some reason makes Jean feel incredibly proud). He’s also still very naked. If Jean weren’t already determined to  _end_ whoever has broken in, the sight of Armand so vulnerable would more than convince him.     

Three steps away from the door. Two. One. 

Jean throws all his weight behind the door, which crashes into a man, knocking him against the wall. From the way he slumps, Jean would be willing to bet he’s unconscious, but he still bend down to make sure. He tugs off the man’s black balaclava, noting with approval the nasty broken nose currently bleeding heavily, and takes the man’s pulse. Sluggish, but present. 

Jean removes his belt anyway to tie the intruder’s hands, then goes back into Armand’s room to retrieve another and does the same to his feet. He does a quick check for weapons, and cheers mentally when he finds a god damn stun gun — useful doesn’t begin to cover it, this is fantastic — although he quickly has to stop thinking about why this man might have brought it with him. Who he might have been intending to use it on. He’s already been knocked out — if Jean punches him again he won’t be able to argue self-defence. Though if he takes an extra moment to tighten the belts around the man’s wrists and ankles to the point where they’re gonna seriously hurt when he wakes up, then that’s just Jean being cautious. 

“There are probably more,” he mutters to Armand, who has started dressing. His hands are shaking too much to do up the buttons on his shirt, and Jean wants to hold them but first he has to secure the rest of the house. “Stay here.” 

“What — no, Jean,  _Jean_ _— what are you doing —_ _”_

Jean closes the door quietly behind him, silently blessing the solid floors and walls of the building that have apparently kept the people downstairs from hearing him knock their friend out.  

He glances down, and amends that thought slightly. Not friend. The kind of scum who would bring a stun gun — a fucking  _stun gun_  — and try and rob Armand doesn’t have friends. They probably hate him. Unless they have stun guns of their own. In which case, maybe they do like him, because they are also the scum of humanity.  

It’s possible Jean is taking this a little too personally. He doesn’t much care. He steps over the human scum lying on the floor, and makes his way down the stairs as quietly as he can. (Taking off his shoes would have helped with that, but if he ends up having to fight the bastards downstairs, he’d rather his kicks did the most damage possible). 

The stun gun is a comforting weight in his hand. He’d still rather it was a cricket bat though. Even a golf club would have been nice. Next Christmas, he’s getting Armand both. 

It’s with these semi-pleasant thoughts in his head that Jean runs into the first burglar at the bottom of the stairs. His first thought is:  _Jesus, it’s a fucking kid._  Closely followed by:  _oh, he’s got a stun gun too. Fellow scum then. Fuck him._  

The kid’s eyes are wide with shock though, and his grip on his weapon is weak enough that he drops it after being punched in the stomach. Jean quickly kicks it out of the way, before making use of his own.  

He leaves the kid twitching on the stairs. He can still hear at least one other guy rummaging around — the noise is coming from Armand’s study.  

There could be any number of reasons for that, Jean tells himself. Except when he kicks open the door, there’s a guy holding Armand’s laptop and yeah, Jean should have seen this coming.  

This man is also very much  _not_  a kid. When he attacks, it hurts. Jean lets him get a hit in — alright, maybe he doesn’t have much choice in the matter, but no one else is watching; when he tells this story, he’ll say he let the guy do it — then he hits him with the stun gun. No he didn’t remember to turn it on. But Jean hit the guy in the face anyway, so it breaks his nose all the same. The man draws back sharply, howling, and Jean makes sure to kick him again. 

“Who sent you,” he growls — says, Jean says. He’s in control of his emotions. He is.  

“Fuck you,” the guy spits. Then he actually spits, and Jean hopes Armand doesn’t mind the blood on his carpet. Then the man’s expression changes, from anger to savage joy, and Jean doesn’t even have time to turn around before there are hands around his throat, choking him.  _Fuck._

_Just break the hold,_  he tells himself. With that thought, Jean reaches behind him, grabs a handful of his attacker’s hair and snaps his head back. The grip around his neck loosens enough for Jean to breath —  _hold broken, now to incapacitate him_  — Jean grabs one of the wrists as he turns to escape, forcing it to extend and lock, then drives his fist into the hyper-extended elbow. The scream this gets is loud enough that even if Armand hasn’t managed to call the police, his neighbours will almost certainly do it for him. 

“Fuck you!” Again, really? — then there’s a hand grabbing his arm, a sharp pain in his shoulder — and because Jean is an arsehole, he knees the guy in the groin. He goes down whimpering, and Jean takes great pleasure in treading on his fingers as he goes over to retrieve Armand’s laptop. The two men on the floor are staring at his arm though, and when Jean looks down he can see why. 

Or rather, he can see the knife sticking out of his shoulder.  _Fuck._ Jean should probably take it out. Yes? No? Perhaps best not to. Best to wait. 

_“Who sent you?”_   He growls. 

The man with the broken arms whimpers at his feet. “Rochefort,” he gasps. “Georges Rochefort.” Then, “fuck, my arm.” 

Then Jean hears sirens and right in that moment, they’re the most beautiful sound in the world. 

 

* * *

 

It turns out, he was right to leave the knife in his shoulder. Paramedics remove it for him before Armand’s horrified eyes. Jean wants to tell him to stop fussing, but the moment the Paramedics turn away Armand starts to stroke his hair and that’s nice. It’s very nice. Jean tells him so.  

“Yes, well,” Armand says. And then, “honestly, Jean.”  

“I got them all?” 

“You did.” 

“Good,” Jean smiles. Armand still looks a little perturbed though. What else is wrong? Jean is fine, the robbers didn’t get away, what could be making him look so — oh. The pain medication they’ve given him must be making him slower than normal.  

Jean’s smile turns into a grin. “How many of my team are here?”  

Armand sighs heavily. “All four.”  

“Do they know why I’m here?”  

“They insisted on listening while I gave my report to the police.”  

“Of course they did,” Jean loves them, he really does. He loves Armand too, especially when he’s all grumpy and flustered. He wants to tell him. He also wants to add to the marks he’s already left on Armand’s neck, wants to kiss and bite and — 

Pain medication. Right. Probably not the best idea he’s had tonight.  

Damn, Armand’s hands are nice though. Warm and comforting. Armand’s hair is nice too, very soft. Jean misses it already. It’s a shame Armand is standing and some bastard stabbed Jean in the shoulder to he can’t reach up and touch. “Can I sleep?”  

“Go ahead,” Armand says. “You’re not the one with the concussion.” 

“I gave one of them a concussion?”  

“Try  _all_  of them.” 

_“No_ — Really?” 

“Yes. Before he realised what you being here meant, I believe d’Artagnan’s exact words were: ‘that’s why I want to be Treville when I grow up.’” 

And really, there’s nothing Treville can say to that. He ignores it. “Can we try again tomorrow?” 

Armand smiles down at him. “Alright,” he says. Then his expression changes slightly, and Jean just has time to catch his breath before Armand leans down to kiss him. Jean tangles his fingers in Armand’s curls —  _yes_  — and focuses on enjoying the moment. There’s a lot to be said for it; Armand kisses him open mouthed and slow, and he groans when Jean tugs his hair lightly to correct the angle and  _that_  makes Jean shiver, because he wants to hear it again, over and over.  

A cough, then, “Treville? Sir?” — Armand breaks away, grinning. 

“Did you do that just to piss off one of my guys?” 

“Do you have a problem with that?” 

“Hell no. Why stop with one, let’s piss ‘em all off.” 

 


End file.
